


Debriefing

by Carmarthen



Category: Mission: Impossible - Ghost Protocol (2011)
Genre: Anger, Double Entendre, M/M, Rivalry, Spies, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-13
Updated: 2012-01-13
Packaged: 2017-10-29 11:04:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/319206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carmarthen/pseuds/Carmarthen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anatoly Sidorov visits Ethan Hunt in the hospital in Mumbai and tries, semi-successfully, to get a read on him.  Pre-slash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Debriefing

**Author's Note:**

> First story in this fandom and man, it is hard to get a handle on Ethan Hunt; I am not sure I succeeded (Sidorov is such a cipher he's not much easier).
> 
> Thanks to lakeeffectgirl for the very helpful beta! Remaining errors and issues of characterization are all mine.

Anatoly Sidorov had been in a number of hospitals over the years, usually when he or one of his agents had been shot or stabbed or thrown out of a building or otherwise encountered one of the many hazards inherent to their line of work. Hospitals in major cities were generally the same: sterile, chemical-smelling, and full of curt, overworked staff.

He didn’t like hospitals much.

When Ethan Hunt opened his eyes, his gaze flicked for a moment to each wrist in turn and his hands twitched almost imperceptibly, although his expression remained impassive. Sidorov had to admit he was impressed, but then, he had been grudgingly, angrily impressed with Hunt from the moment when he stuck his head out the window of OAO Medicina to find Hunt, concussed and trembling, standing on that ledge, ready to do whatever he must to escape.

“Good morning, Agent Hunt.”

“No flowers, Agent Sidorov?”

“No flowers,” said Sidorov drily, pulling a chair over to the bedside and sitting down. Propped up against the pillows, Hunt looked pretty good for a man who had sustained a concussion, a dislocated jaw, and half a dozen cracked ribs. He still had bruises fading purple and yellow all over his face, but he seemed remarkably alert for a man taking as much Vicodin as his chart listed. “How are you feeling?”

Hunt snorted. “Like shit.”

“You are fortunate to be alive.”

“I think we’re past pleasantries,” said Hunt, half-closing his eyes. He was smiling again--Hunt always seemed to be smiling--and he looked relaxed, but if he were a betting man, Sidorov would have bet that it was as false as half the things Hunt had said or done in their short acquaintance. He wondered if Hunt had managed to stash a weapon somewhere in the hospital bed. Perhaps there were armed IMF agents watching them. “Cut the bullshit. Why are you here?”

“Your government has agreed, as a sign of good faith, to assist in our post-mortem on the Kremlin...incident.”

Again, Hunt did not react visibly, although he had to understand that this meant giving up details of how the IMF team had infiltrated the Kremlin, and not solely analyzing Kurt Hendricks’ more destructive efforts. Sidorov could not even begin to guess how he felt about that, but it was not his decision.

“You’ll have to fly to Moscow for the debriefing.”

“You’re always welcome to debrief me, Agent Sidorov.”

Sidorov blinked, glad for the training that allowed him to hide his shock. Hunt’s voice and face were bland, but Sidorov, who spoke English with hardly any trace of a Russian accent if he concentrated, knew a double entendre when he heard one. What he was not so certain of was what the stresses in Hunt’s sentence meant; that had always been the thing he struggled most at understanding in other languages, the meaning conveyed not by the words or the syntax, but by stress and intonation.

Well, when in doubt, wait for further intelligence. Sidorov raised an eyebrow and regarded Hunt with equal blandness, saying nothing, until a muscle twitched in Hunt’s jaw. Good. Let him sweat.

“I think the hospital has already taken care of that for you,” he said at last, with a pointed glance at Hunt’s paper hospital gown.

Hunt laughed, and then winced, pressing one hand against his ribs. After a moment, he said quietly, “I _am_ sorry about it.”

That was ambiguous. There were any number of things Hunt might be sorry about. Sidorov somehow doubted that his hospital gown was among them--

“Your face, I mean.” Hunt looked sheepish.

Sidorov shrugged. “You did what was necessary. I would not have believed you.”

“Still,” said Hunt, with a smile that looked smoothly practiced in its charm, and probably was. “I owe you one.”

Sidorov itched, positively _itched,_ to hit him, to wipe that smile off his face. This wasn’t new. He’d wanted to hit Hunt for a long time. Actually hitting Hunt hadn’t really done much for that urge, especially after Hunt had so thoroughly beaten him in Dubai. What was new--and dangerous--now that he knew they were on the same side, or at least not opposite sides, was everything else he wanted to do to Hunt, everything he thought Hunt might be offering under the jokes and the cocky grins and the double entendres.

He had always thought of himself as a civilized man, a man who was efficient and in control of himself. He did not believe in needless violence, nor did he take undue pleasure in it; he simply did what was necessary to accomplish his job, for his country. And yet--when the hospital had called him in and he’d walked past all those injured and dying civilians to see Hunt’s jacket with its false general’s tabs, the red wash of rage had surprised him. He could have strangled Hunt with his bare hands without the slightest remorse. The prospect of interrogating Hunt, of making him bleed, making him _pay_ for what he’d done, had filled him with a cold, obscene kind of glee. It was the sort of thing he had always condemned in his more enthusiastic colleagues.

And the worst of it was that he hadn’t cared.

Sidorov’s fists were clenched in his lap, and he had to consciously force his fingers to uncurl. Hunt was bad for his self-control.

He leaned forward a bit, just far enough to be in Hunt’s personal space, and gave Hunt his most wolfish smile. It was a small risk; even confined to a hospital bed and full of drugs, Hunt was dangerous. Sidorov had no illusions about that. But they were, at least for now, cooperating. “Once you are released, you will come to Moscow for debriefing--by my superiors.”

“Kinky,” Hunt murmured.

Sidorov ignored him. “ _Then_ we may discuss what is owed.” He leaned back and stood, then let his hand drop onto Hunt’s shoulder. Hunt winced; Sidorov had been right, thinking the bruises extended there.

“Yeah, okay.” Hunt let out a long, shaky breath. “See you in Moscow.”

Sidorov inclined his head in a nod.

As Sidorov stepped out into the heat and noise of the Mumbai street, Glazov fell in behind him with his usual unobtrusive ease. “Call the embassy,” he told Glazov. “Tell them to book a flight for Wednesday. There’s work to do at home.”

Whatever happened the next time he saw Ethan Hunt, it was bound to be interesting.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm making an educated guess about the hospital in Moscow; if anyone happened to recognize it as a different one, please let me know and I'll edit. Likewise, I don't think Sidorov's second/backup had a name in the movie (he doesn't on IMDB), but if he did and I missed it, I'd like to know.


End file.
